Wine and Kissing

By Pablo Neruda

All night I have slept with you
next to the sea, on the island.
Wild and sweet you were between pleasure and sleep,
between fire and water.

Perhaps very late
our dreams joined
at the bottom,
up above like branches moved by a common wind,
down below like red roots that touch.

Perhaps your dream
drifted from mine
and through the dark sea
was seeking me
as before,
when you did not yet exist,
when without sighting you
I sailed by your side,
and your eyes sought
what now –
bread, wine, love, and anger –
I heap upon you
because you are the cup
that was waiting for the gifts of my life.

I have slept with you
all night long while
the dark earth spins
with the living and the dead,
and on waking suddenly
in the midst of the shadow
my arm encircled your waist.
neither night nor sleep
could separate us.

I have slept with you
and on waking, your mouth,
come from your dream,
gave me the taste of earth,
of sea water, of seaweed,
of the depths of your life,
and I received your kiss
moistened by the dawn
as if it came to me
from the sea that surrounds us.

By Plato

My soul, when I kissed Agathon, did start
Up to my lips, just ready to depart.
Oh! on that kiss my soul,
As if in doubt to stay,
Lingered awhile, on fluttering wing prepared
To fly away.

Hafiz

I said: “O Beloved, look at me. I am healthy and prosperous.
When will I get Your kiss?”
He said: “Would I lie to you? While you were talking,
I kissed you and at the same time took your purse of gold.”

I said: “Your price is high. Even if I owned all of Egypt
I couldn’t pay You for that kiss.”
He said: “Don’t worry, the bankers of Egypt won’t lose money
on this deal, and I won’t give you any more than you can take.”

I said: “How will I find, then, the way to Your mouth?”
He said: “I will give you a map that only the sensitive can read.”

I said: “And how do I avoid idiots and idols along the way?”
He said: “In the Street of Love there are those who tell stories, and
there are those who tell the truth.”

I said: “But I am happy here in the Winehouse. Why would I want
to go away?”
He said: “Then stay here if you are happy and truly feel this way.”

I said: “What do wine and all the preacher’s robes have to do with religion?”
He said: “This is like kindergarten to get into the Master’s school.”

I said: “And what are You doing for those who are old and infirm?”
He said: “With a sweet kiss I will make them feel young.”

I said: “And when will we see this kind Master standing at the door?”
He said: “Not until Jupiter collides with the moon, or until
You can drink a cask of wine.”

I said: “But Hafiz prays every morning for Your happiness and health!”
He said: “Don’t pray for me; I pump iron and laugh a lot, and have angels that pray for me all day.

Think of this – now what do you have to say?”

By B.B. Mak

Fall in the Siskiyou Range of Northern California borders on being a contemplative time. The days rapidly grow shorter. Morning and afternoon shadows grow longer as the sun follows its seasonal migration into the southern sky. The midday temperatures finally begin to cool. The smell of straw, dry leaves and dusty logging roads fills one’s nostrils. Both the morning and evening air carry the chill of winter. Crawling out of the sleeping bag in the predawn darkness proves to be an increasing hardship and that first steaming cup of ‘Joe’ is not only welcomed on the way down, but a great hand warmer to the seemingly frostbitten digits.

The first light rains of September provide a signal. Like a semaphore alongside the railroad tracks they shine a green light to the schooling pods of steelhead just offshore in the chilly waters of the Pacific along the Humboldt coast. The sweet smell of fresh water awakens the awaiting hordes poised to charge upstream into the rain-flushed rivers in order to find love, romance or simply to fulfill that uncontrollable drive to procreate. A similar signal is also deciphered by the local ‘Homo fishermanus’. RRRRRRR-i-i-i-ing!

“Yeah?”
“They’re startin’ to move up!”
“No shit? Great! Call me when it’s time.”

A few days pass, and the inevitable communiqué is received. I throw my gear into the Land Cruiser and grab the elixir for this year’s fall ritual from the wine cellar. This is a great one…no… a FANTASTIC ONE! – no less than a magnum of 2000 vintage Truchard Vineyards, Carneros Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon.

“Oh yeah, baby! This one’ll do just fine!”

At about four o’clock, after a six-hour drive including stops for gas, beef jerky, an ample supply of rib eyes, snacks, chocolate and whatever else we can think of we arrive at our destination – Delloma, on the Trinity River. We’re motivated, so making camp is a cinch. The tent goes up, we’re eager for one of those mouth-watering grilled steaks, and of course we gotta pop the cork on that big, beautiful Cab. After all, it is a celebration. We’re here to see our old friends who come back to visit about this time each year.

Over the past couple of decades, our ritual has developed into a rather civilized pursuit. This section of the Trinity makes it easy. For the most part, the stretch of State Route 299 running between Redding and Eureka follows the river canyon. Different from most fly fishing for trout – which entails a lot of walking along remote river banks, rocks and cliffs; you can view the river from above while driving. It’s as close as it gets to helicopter fishing. Most of the riffles, runs and pools are easily visible from the comfort of the car. When a pod of our prey is spotted down below, we can generally get to it fairly easily via one of many dirt access roads or foot trails. This makes bringing the giant bottle of vino with us appear to be a completely sane idea.

This evening, we’re in luck. The goliath sea trout are stacked like cord wood in an easily accessible run that bows around a large, flat bend in the river. There are plenty of rocks sitting on the sandy bank ready for us to prop our refreshment and a couple of clear plastic glasses while we wade into the water to start our casting. But first, a toast!

“Here’s to our little buddies who’ve come back to see us, again!”
“Bless their little hearts!”
“With this most excellent fruit of the vine, we honor you and the expectation of an exciting evening of battle!”

With that we nestled our empty glasses in the sand, pushed the cork back in the bottle making sure it was also secure and headed into the water. Mitch followed the bank upstream about a hundred yards, so that we wouldn’t get in each other’s way. As I cast up into the flowing current and watched my puffy, fluorescent-yellow strike indicator drift down towards me, to keep it from dragging I gingerly snapped a couple coils of line behind it with the tip of my rod. My thoughts wandered to the intense taste of Romanian cheese, pepper and green olives lingering on my palate. What a fitting vintage for such a noble pursuit!

I’ve heard it said that fly fishing for steelhead is like pounding a tennis ball into a backboard. Load up…cast…drift…snap…drift some more…lift…do it, again. You can repeat this process a hundred times, covering slightly different stretches of water on each pass with absolutely no result. There are times when you’ve spent three or four hours on the river with a thousand casts to your credit and absolutely nothing to show for it other than a very tired arm, aching and sore shoulder. And then, there’s always that one cast when…BOOM!…the stick of dynamite explodes at the end of your line…

“FISH ON!…I GOT ONE!!… I GOT ONE ON!!!”

It’s for this single instant that the battle weary spend hour-after-hour wading into the ice cold water with feet completely numb…this fantastic moment!…and the subsequent battle which ensues.

Spawning steelhead generally range from four to seven pounds in weight. They possess the size and muscular ability of a small salmon with the explosive power of a trout that’s lived its entire life in fast moving water. They’re fierce fighters and maintain all the physicality and cunning one would expect from the genus ‘Oncorhynchus’. Once hooked, they run away as fast as they can taking dozens of yards of line with them in a matter of seconds. They leap like acrobatic seals a couple of feet into the air twisting and turning in slow motion above the water’s plane. They’ll charge at their tormentor making the line go completely slack and forcing the angler to strip it back as fast as he possibly can in an effort to keep some tension, so that the hook doesn’t dislodge itself from the fish’s mouth. This mad succession of maneuvers can easily continue for twenty minutes, and more. I can hardly think of a more exciting roller coaster ride. The battle becomes one of wits, agility, reaction and brute strength. Who will tire whom out first? Will the fisherman not only be skilled, but fortunate enough to keep the hook sunk in his prey? Will the brute manage to execute every trick in his book in order to throw that damned barb? Will the fisherman’s knots remain intact? Will the tippet, leader, fly line or backing hold their strength? Or, will they snap like a frail, dry twig in a hurricane? Seconds, turn into hours…minutes into a lifetime. The pumping adrenaline on either side of that fly line makes this a classic battle royal between the hunter and the hunted.

Then, almost as suddenly as it started the angler senses the first signs of weakness in his prey. The leaps are less frequent. The runs less vigorous. As he retrieves line into his reel he catches glimpses of the panting beast just below the water’s surface. Their eyes meet – testing, questioning, speculating. Who’s gonna be the first to call the bluff?

Fishing always poses the threat of losing the wild game. That’s why they call it fishing and not ‘catching’. The angler’s interests are always best served by landing the beast as soon as possible. By doing so, he removes the threat of loss from his side of the equation. The prey seems to sense this. The difference between agonist and antagonist in ‘this’ drama is that for the hunted, the struggle is one of life versus death. It is for this reason that frequently the fisher brings his captive onto the rocky shore only to find that when he attempts to approach his prize, the trophy explodes back into the water for a final death-defying fifteenth round. And so again, the battle rages – however, only briefly. For this time around, it is the final death dance before the exhausted goliath lies panting on his side, unable to muster yet another ounce of fight in the face of his victor.

This is the moment of truth. The most glorious instant when the exhilarated angler is able to hold this most beautiful of beasts in his bare hands…one of God’s most magnificent creatures. So stunningly sublime, that words can’t even come close to describing the vibrancy of red and green color…the shimmering of gold and platinum scales…the delicate webbing of masterfully designed fins…the humbling gaze from one’s eye into the other’s…the recognition of incredible beauty and the sheer joy of feeling this great animal’s breaths next to your own. Full well knowing, that without the use of such sophisticated hi-tech trickery like a high-modulus graphite fishing rod manipulating a masterfully tied artificial fly, this moment would have most likely never happened. We only get to spy these magical creatures from afar. We never get to experience the joy of actually holding one of these darting, hydro-rockets within the confines of our frail human fingers.

With all these crazy thoughts racing through my wine and adrenaline addled brain, I finally offered the majestic bull, ‘Oncorhynchus mykiss’, thanks – planting my delicate kiss on the tip of his wet snout; and cradled him back into his icy world. Holding him gently by the tail while resuscitating, I could feel the strength come back into his exhausted form. I released my captive, while managing to catch one final glimpse of his shimmering shadow as it slowly returned to the river’s blue-green depths…

“Goodbye, pal…same time next year?”

By Micole Miller
www.furioncellars.com

Funny how a wine can bring you all the way back to an adolescent backyard lipgloss KISS!!!!!!!! I love kissing, I hear it’s lost it’s GLAMOUR.

by Horace

When thou the rosy neck of Telephus,
The waxen arms of Telephus, art praising
Woe is me, Lydia, how my jealous heart
Swells with the anguish I would vainly smother!

Then in my mind though has no settled base,
To and fro shifts upon my cheek the color,
And tears that glide adown in stealth reveal
By what slow fires mine inmost self consumeth.

I burn, whether he quarrel o’er his wine,
Stain with a bruise dishonoring thy white shoulders,
Or whether my boy-rival on thy lips
Leave by a scar the mark of his rude kisses.

Hope not, if thou wouldst hearken unto me,
That one so little kind prove always constant;
Barbarous indeed, to wound sweet lips imbued
By Venus with a fifth part of her nectar.*

Thrice happy, ay, more than thrice happy, they
Whom one soft bond unbroken binds together;
Whose love serene from bickering and reproach
In life’s last moment find the first that severs.

*The ancients supposed that honey contained a tenth part of nectar, and therefore the lips of Lydia were imbued with double the nectar bestowed on honey.